by J. J. Green
Patrols?
“I’m not so sure. The sooner I get out of this place the better.”
“Good for you. Now let’s go in, or they’ll be wondering where we’ve got to.”
Taylan had been careful since leaving the Resistance hideout, always traveling at night and keeping out of sight. She hadn’t seen anyone else in the lonely landscape, but her eavesdropping had confirmed the EAC did have people scouring the hills for natives they hadn’t managed to kill yet.
She’d been lucky so far. It was even more reason to locate her kids and get them to safety quickly.
Lifting the binoculars, she scanned the hills on the other side of the valley. The high, grassy mounds were empty of life except for birds and the odd rabbit. In her current position it was harder to see what was happening on her side, but she appeared to be alone.
The view trembled, and she realized she was shivering.
It was time to move around a bit and get her circulation going.
After another glance at the landscape, she rose to a crouch and then began to edge backward down the slope. When she was lower than her own height to the ridge, she rose to her feet but remained bent down low as she made her way toward the wood where she’d spent the last two nights.
The hill ran down to a stone wall, one of many turning the fields into a giant chessboard. The wood covered the low ground too wet for grazing and straggled up the hills on each side. She’d stashed her belongings within the roots of a willow.
She reached the outer trees. Halting, she looked behind her and to each side. Nothing moved in the landscape except crows riding the wind. She waded through the trackless bracken until she reached her campsite. Her sleeping bag and backpack hadn’t changed position since she’d left them.
Pulling a ration bar from her pack, she sat down to eat it.
Regrets over her recent past ran through her head. Joining the Marines had been a terrible mistake. How could she have given up looking for her kids so easily? But she’d been messed up, blaming herself for giving Kayla and Patrin over to someone else’s care. It was no wonder she’d made only one friend and many enemies among her fellow Marines. They hadn’t liked her beating them all the time in Basic, but her attitude had sucked too.
Never mind.
She couldn’t take back the past, and at least now she was finally back on track.
She popped the last of the bar into her mouth. It was time to head back up the slope and continue her vigil, but tiredness dogged her. It probably wouldn’t hurt to take a nap. The kids in the orphanage would all be eating lunch.
She lay down on the leaf mold and pulled her sleeping bag over her rather than climbing into it. That way, she wouldn’t get too comfortable and sleep too long.
An unknown amount of time later, a loud rustling woke her.
Her muscles rigid, she listened. It sounded like two or three people striding through the undergrowth. The sound of their passage was accompanied by whacks, as if they were hacking at vegetation with knives or sticks.
The noises were growing louder.
She opened her eyes. The dappled light had grown soft. She guessed she must have slept a couple of hours. About twenty meters away, three figures strode through the waist-height bracken, heading toward her. Very slowly, she slid out from under her sleeping bag.
“Something moved over there!” a voice yelled. “Can you see it?”
Shit!
Taylan bolted.
Chapter Three
They were trapped.
Two bodies lay on the asphalt in front of the barricade. Another Marine was injured—mortally according to his stats. Wright had called a halt to the attack as soon as he’d arrived at the barrier and seen how hopeless it was. Though they outnumbered the troops on the other side, they couldn’t attempt to move the vehicles or climb over them without exposing themselves to enemy fire. And he had nothing except his men and women to throw at the problem. Weapons-wise, they were down to pulse rifles only. With nothing heavier, they were never going to break through the blockade, and they were barely holding off the EAC approaching from the rear.
Lieutenant-General Carol had made it clear no one could be spared to come to their rescue. They had to make it out by themselves or not at all. Wright had been in tight spots before, but none as tight as this.
Recessed shop doorways and abandoned vehicles were providing the bare minimum of cover for now. At least the shelling had stopped. The cessation in friendly fire was buying his platoon some respite, but it would also give their attackers more freedom to finish them off.
The only possible escape lay in entering the buildings and hoping to find alternative exits leading into surrounding alleys and streets. One of the buildings was a large, well-known department store. It had to have a rear entrance for deliveries. But that could mean splitting up, with every Marine for themselves, in an area alive with hostiles. It was likely they would be rounded up one by one, and everyone knew the EAC took no prisoners. He filed the option in the back of his mind to be used as a last resort. If there was a way they could stick together...
Pulse fire flashed in the darkness behind. The second half of the trap was closing.
His gaze fell upon a manhole cover.
Why try to go through the barricade when they could go under it?
“Sergeant Elphicke, I want you to go down into the sewer and try to find a route out of this mess. Take three Marines with you.” Wright shared his vidfeed so the sergeant could see what he meant. Strictly speaking, the man would be going into a mess.
A pause.
“Roger wilco.”
Wright ordered the rest of the platoon to lay down cover, forward and to the rear.
The sewer would follow the street. All Elphicke had to do was find a place where it was safe to leave it. Wright watched as he ran for the manhole, hefted it to one side, and slipped into the hole, quickly followed by his team.
Enemy fire from behind was intensifying. The EAC on the far side of the barricade seemed content to let their buddies take the majority of the risk, shooting only sporadically from their secure position. Wright diverted five Marines to the rear defense. He’d lost contact with Elphicke as soon as he’d disappeared underground. He wouldn’t see him or his team again on his HUD until they surfaced.
One of the dots that signified the members of his platoon turned blue. It was the man who had been wounded in the assault on the barricade.
Wright silently cursed. This was like death by a thousand cuts.
A minute dragged past.
He decided to update Carol.
After giving his brief report, he asked, “What’s happening in the rest of the city, sir?”
“You’re still on your own, I’m afraid, Major. But hopefully your plan will succeed. Remember, the Prime Minister’s Palace.” Carol cut the comm.
The Prime Minister’s Palace sounded like a far-off dream. What had happened to Elphicke?
A Marine leapt from the open manhole, quickly followed by another.
“EAC on our tails!” the first to emerge yelled. He grabbed the cover and thrust it over the hole.
“Wait!” said Wright. “What about Elphicke?”
“Dead, sir.”
The other Marine was dragging a dumpster toward the manhole.
“Elphicke and Moss,” the man added. “We were spotted as soon as we climbed out.”
The second Marine had pulled the heavy dumpster on top of the cover.
A sudden grief hit Wright. He’d known Elphicke for years. They hadn’t been close, but... He pushed his feelings aside. There would be time to think about Elphicke later.
His plan had failed and cost two lives, and he’d given the EAC another avenue of attack: from below.
From below.
If they couldn’t go under the street...
He looked upward.
The buildings all adjoined one another. Could they simply cross from one roof to the next? Now the shelling had stopped, the idea was
n’t completely crazy.
Lance Corporal Patel was sheltering in the recessed doorway of the department store. Wright explained his idea, planning on sending her to scout out the route to the roof and report whether an escape that way was feasible. Then he changed his mind. He’d already lost one good officer. This time, he would go along and comm the rest of the platoon to follow when he knew it was safe.
“Don’t go in yet,” he said. “I’m coming with you.”
After comming the Marines to continue to defend against the rearward attack and await further orders, he dashed across the street.
“Why’s your visor open?” he asked Patel when he saw her young face.
“I took a hit on it, sir. Couldn’t see a thing.”
Wright was glad he’d picked her to help him find an exit over the rooftop. Operating without the benefit of a HUD was like fighting with one hand behind your back.
“Come with me,” he said to her and the two Marines sheltering with her, Bates and Snowdon.
The store’s doors were locked but the glass had been smashed by looters. He stepped over the door frame and into the shadowy interior. Empty shop shelves filled most of the space and discarded, broken goods covered the floor—useless things, like bottles of perfume, cosmetics, costume jewelry, and swimwear.
They ran for the escalator and bounded up the frozen steps. A turn, and another set of escalators. Another turn, and another run upward.
Five more floors later, they came to the final escalator, which ended in an amusement center. The machines were silent and dark. The four Marines’ helmet lights swept the place as each looked for a route onto the roof.
“I think I see an exit sign,” said Patel. She set off across the room quickly, weaving between the sim globes and holo cubicles.
“Slow down, Lance Corporal,” said Wright. “I don’t want us to get sep—”
“It’s here, sir!” she exclaimed.
“Patel!” yelled Wright. “Wait!” He dashed to catch up to her.
At the same time, there was a clunk, like the sound of a heavy bar being pressed down, followed by the creak of hinges.
“Patel!”
Pulse fire spurted through the open door.
Wright reached the lance corporal just in time to catch her in his arms as she fell backward. She’d been hit in the face through her open visor. He turned his head away from the sight. Another pulse bolt flew through the door, hitting Patel in the stomach. Her armor blackened and smoked, but she was already dead anyway.
Bates threw himself at the door and slammed it shut. It locked automatically, only opening from the inside.
“Sir,” said Snowdon, “we have to get out of here.”
Wright realized he’d frozen. “Yes...I...”
He couldn’t seem to let go of Patel.
“We’ll have to leave her, Major,” said Bates.
The two Marines looked at each other. Snowdon gently pulled Patel out of Wright’s arms and laid her down.
“Sir,” said Bates sharply. “Do we go back down to the street?”
The door resounded as something struck it.
“Yes,” said Wright, his voice sounding like a stranger’s. “Back down to the street.”
“Check,” Snowdon said. “Let’s go.”
His words triggered Wright into action. Bates leading, they ran for the head of the escalator and began bounding down it.
Wright tried to think of something else to try when they reached the street, but his mind was playing a two-second vid on a loop: a door opening, pulse fire, Patel sinking into his arms, her ruined face.
Chapter Four
Taylan’s feet thudded through the long grass. Her panting and the whistle of the wind were loud in her ears. Her lungs, heart, and muscles seemed to scream at her, begging her to stop, but she couldn’t.
Stopping was certain death.
At first, she’d run straight, putting as much distance between herself and the Crusaders as she could, hoping to crest a hill and dip out of sight before they emerged from the wood. Then a pulse round had hit the ground beside her, flaming the vegetation. So she’d begun to zigzag randomly, presenting a harder target.
All the while, the slope she was racing up appeared never-ending. She longed to reach the top, even though, realistically, it was unlikely she would escape then. But the respite of being temporarily out of sight would be welcome.
Another round hit the grass, incinerating the exact spot where her foot had been a split second earlier.
She realized she was running faster for the same amount of effort. The slope was leveling off. She was near the top of the hill. She risked a glimpse of what was happening behind her.
Three figures were visible. Two men and a woman were toiling up the rise. Only one was armed.
Ahead of her the landscape opened out into wide pasture on the farther side of the hill.
Not a road, wall, hedgerow, or other hiding place was in sight.
Her thumping heart plummeted into her stomach. Her only chance of survival was to outrun her pursuers, and avoid being shot. If only she could magic herself to the size of a rabbit and disappear down a hole.
Where was Merlin when you needed him?
Taking advantage of the downward slope, she opened out her stride. The rough grass flew past beneath her, only the balls of her feet making contact with the ground. Briefly, she thought of everything she’d left behind: Binoculars, sleeping bag, food, water bottle—everything the West BI Resistance had loaned her. If she managed to get away, she would have little more than the clothes she wore. She would have to give up searching for Kayla and Patrin, temporarily at least.
Damn the Crusaders!
Damn them for making her lose her children.
Damn them for all the people they’d killed.
A sudden agony erupted on the back of her right thigh and she caught a whiff of an acrid scent—the odor of her own seared flesh.
She’d been hit.
The ground and sky became a whirling, spinning confusion. Her hips and shoulders were buffeted by bumps and grass whipped her face over and over as she rolled down the slope.
When she stopped, with no place to crawl to and hide, her pursuers would catch up to her in seconds.
And then what?
She remembered Wilson, horrifically tortured by Dwyr Orr, displayed for all to see at the ceremony intended to launch the invasion of Ireland.
A quick death would be better.
She was slowing down. She snatched at tussocks. They tore out of her hands, but she slowed herself a little more. Then she held onto one tussock so tightly her motion didn’t jerk it from her hand.
She stopped.
Her right leg was a throbbing mess of pain, utterly useless. Even if she hadn’t been surrounded by open countryside, she couldn’t have got away.
Grimly, she awaited her hunters.
One of the men was the first to reach her. Breathless, he slid to a halt on his knees and turned excitedly to his companions. “She’s here! You winged her, Stefan.”
He was wearing the Crusaders’ strange garb, simple clothes that looked hand woven and hand sewn.
Taylan seized the man’s shoulder, yanking it to pull herself closer. In one smooth movement, she pulled out her knife and thrust it under his ribs. She gave it a twist to make sure she cut something vital and then jerked the blade free. Blood gushed out, drowning her wrist. His mouth formed an O of surprise as she pushed him down and faced her two remaining attackers.
They were not so foolhardy. The man aimed the rifle at her as he trotted down the slope. The woman ran a short distance behind him, her white-faced gaze on the expiring body at Taylan’s side. Both halted ten paces from her.
“Drop the knife,” the Crusader with the rifle ordered.
She hesitated.
A fast, certain death or agonizing torture along with a tiny chance of escape?
She tossed the knife. It sank blade downward into the soft soil.
&nbs
p; Should she tell them her name? It would guarantee her survival in the short term, but she still wasn’t sure if she wanted to survive. Killing the first of her pursuers to reach her had been almost a reflex action.
Before she could say anything, the man said to the woman, “Is it her? What do you think?”
Had they seen a picture of her? Had Dwyr Orr managed to find one? Perhaps she’d created an image in the same way she’d created holos of Kayla and Patrin, based on Wilson’s memories of her vids.
Except that hadn’t been the Dwyr’s work. Arthur had said another person was responsible—Morgan le Fay.
“Could be,” said the woman. “She fits the description.”
The man glanced at the figure on the ground. “And she’s definitely a killer.”
The man she’d stabbed breathed his last.
“I’ll hold the rifle while you tie her up,” the woman said.
“Huh.” The man gave her a knowing, sidelong glance.
Taylan couldn’t blame her for her reluctance. She wouldn’t want to come near herself either.
In answer to his companion’s offer, the man lifted the rifle strap over his head and shoved the weapon into her hands.
Approaching Taylan, he said, “No sudden moves, all right?” He was pulling a rope from his pocket.
She didn’t answer.
She never made promises she couldn’t keep.
“Maybe we should just kill her,” blurted the woman.
“The Dwyr wants her alive, if it is her.”
“We could say it was an accident. She fought back, and—”
“We’ll get a better reward if she’s alive,” the man insisted.
He was within two paces of Taylan. They were having a staring competition she was confident she would win.
“Just keep the rifle on her.”
The woman shifted on the spot, adjusting her aim.
“Stand up.”
Her thigh screaming its protest, she got to her feet, carefully adjusting her position to take account of her wound.
“Arms behind your back,” said the man.
Without her gaze leaving his, she obeyed.
“That’s it,” said the man, relieved. “No need to make this harder than it has to be.”
